


Whose Coffin, Sherlock? (Final Problem S4E3 Partial Rewrite)

by backinmysherlockphaseiguess



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Rewrite, M/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29584233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backinmysherlockphaseiguess/pseuds/backinmysherlockphaseiguess
Summary: If the coffin isn't meant for Molly Hooper, who else could it be for? Who else could love a man like Sherlock Holmes?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	Whose Coffin, Sherlock? (Final Problem S4E3 Partial Rewrite)

“I’m scared. I’m really scared.” The girl’s voice is almost like the turbulence of the plane itself, lurching forwards and backward with terror and impossible uncertainty. Sherlock holds his hand up to the speaker.  
“It’s all right, I–”  
Silence. A click of a phone. Eurus’s face. “Now, back to the matter at hand. Coffin.” As she speaks, Sherlock runs his hand along the white, silky lining of Eurus’s new game. The fabric is brittle and rough, not comfortable as he’d expected. “Problem: someone is about to die. It will be – as I understand it – a tragedy.”  
“So many days not lived, so many words unsaid,” Eurus continues, “et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”  
Sherlock nods. “Yes, yes, yes, and this – I presume – will be their coffin.” It’s a grim round. Five have died already. How many more?  
“Whose coffin, Sherlock?”  
Whose coffin? It’s not an expensive one: he could tell that by just looking at the thing. It’s messily assembled and the wood could be found anywhere. Not to mention the uneven proportions, the completely unnecessary allowance for headroom, the height… “Not a child. Not for a child. A child’s coffin would be much more expensive. This is in the lower price range. I’d say, looking at it, it’s intended for a woman around 5’4.”  
“That certainly narrows it down,” Mycroft scoffs, “a woman. Average height. Looks like an average build too. Could be millions of people.”  
“Yes. It does narrow it down.” Sherlock’s words are barely audible. “This is a practical and informed choice. Balance of probability suggests that this is for an unmarried woman distant from her close relatives. That much is suggested by the economy of choice.” He’s crouched on the concrete to have a look under the thing. No marks. Nothing. “Acquainted with the process of death but unsentimental about the necessity of disposal. Also, the lining of the coffin …”  
Mycroft moves to the screen, where Eurus’s grinning face looks over the room. “Yes, very good, Sherlock, or we could just look at the name on the lid.”  
The lid.  
On the screen, Eurus smiles even wider. The lid! Yes!  
Mycroft’s voice is louder than Eurus’s excited breaths, louder than John’s tapping shoe, louder even than the static that replaced the young girl’s voice just moments ago. “Only it isn’t a name.”  
It isn’t a name. It’s a phrase. Three words.  
I LOVE YOU. They all see it. Sherlock repeats it under his breath: “I love you–”  
John cuts in. He’s been standing frozen off to the left of the casket, analyzing it with a heavy wrinkle in his brow. “So, it’s for somebody who loves somebody.”  
“It’s for somebody who loves Sherlock,” Mycroft adds, frowning at his brother, “This is all about you. Everything here.” A few second’s silence. “So who loves you?”  
“Irene Adler,” John suggests. “Or–or Molly.” Molly Hooper. Small mouth, small feelings. Sherlock can’t remember much about her now. Only a few images, a few screenshots. If only he had the time! There was that night at the party, the elegantly wrapped gift, but he wasn’t all that special to her, not really.  
“Molly Hooper? She doesn’t love me. Although, well, she fits the height requirements, five-four, I measured her once, for a case...she’s unmarried, practical about death…”  
“It’s Molly, has to be,” Mycroft confirms. “Who else?” But it doesn’t feel right.  
“A woman. Five-foot-four to five-foot-seven, perhaps, seen a lot of death, doesn’t care much for her own. Loves me.”  
Letting out an entertained giggle, Eurus presses a button out of frame. Moriarty’s hollow grin replaces her. “Tick-tock, Sherlock, tick-tock. Tick-tick-tick-tick…”  
“Loves me. Loves me. Who loves me?” Sherlock paces and lets out a heavy breath. “Who loves me!”  
“A woman. Eurus, tell me! Who loves me? If it’s not Molly, then who?”  
So many moments wasted in silence. All this time, the girl on the plane must be growing terrified. She must be shaking her parents, sobbing over them, asking nobody at all why they won’t wake. Who loves him? Who could ever love a man like Sherlock Holmes? He runs to the coffin again. John hasn’t moved. He seems to have folded in on himself; Sherlock assumes fear, fear, or something else, but John is never afraid.  
Oh.  
Oh.  
Not a woman. Not a woman at all. Not close.  
“John–”  
“Sherlock, no. Not right now. Please, no.” He digs his foot deeper into the concrete. Looking up, he meets Sherlock’s eyes. Of course. Practical about death – John’s seen war, and worse. John’s always been the short one. Five-six at most. Of course it would be him. Hadn’t it been obvious this whole time?  
That same look in his eyes he’d had that night at the restaurant, seeing Sherlock come back from the dead. Panic? No, different than that. He’d moved on. He’d built a life with Mary and they had planned a future together when suddenly the past came back and broke the illusion. It had always been Sherlock. Always, since the very beginning.  
Sherlock had deduced that Harry Watson was a drunk from the markings on John’s charging port. He’d noticed that John was a veteran from the way he stood, and diagnosed him with a pseudo-limp from the way he walked. How could he have missed John’s sweaty hands? His vacant eye contact could’ve given it away on its own – even the way he’d talked to Sherlock that very first morning mirrored that of both Molly and Irene.  
Of course it’s John.  


> “Got a boyfriend? Which is, fine, by the way.”  
>  I know it’s fine.”  
>  “Um – so you’ve got a boyfriend, then.”  
>  “No.”

  
“Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick–”  
“John. Just. Just say it.” Surprising everyone, the voice is Mycroft. “We all know. I can give you two some space, you know, if that helps.” He refocuses his glare on Moriarty.  
“I can’t, Sherlock,” John starts, stops, starts again, “she’s playing this terrible game with us. Do you remember? Remember Mary? How could I have loved you all these years and still married her? Wouldn’t that be wrong?”  
“No, John. You’re a just man. I know you. After I faked my death, you had to move on. And when I came around again to surprise you, how could you go back? You couldn’t do that to Mary. Even Mrs. Hudson saw it in you, right from the very beginning.”  
“Saw what in me, Sherlock? I don’t love you – I’m not. I’m not like that. Irene loves you. Molly loves you. Shit, Sherlock, even Janine loves you. Well, maybe not anymore, but you understand. This could be anyone! Maybe even–”  
“John. The girl on the plane. The little girl all alone in the sky: do you think she wants you to deny it? That you love me?”  
“I don’t love you!”  
“Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick–”  
“You do. You always have.”  
“No, shut up, shut up, please. I can’t do this right now. Eurus can’t keep doing this to us. Tearing us apart like this. She likes it. She likes it more than you do. Sherlock, if I weren’t in here with you now, I’d think you were running this. How long do I have? It’s my coffin, I’m going to die, how long do I have? Eurus.”  


> “Look, I find it difficult. I find it difficult, this sort of stuff.”  
>  “I know.”  
>  “You were the best and wisest man that I have ever known. Yes, of course, I forgive you.”

  
“Sherlock, how am I supposed to believe you? This could all be a trick. You made me forgive you once. I had to forgive you then, on the train. How the hell am I supposed to think this isn’t the same thing? Because more people died this time? It’s very elaborate, Sherlock, and well-planned, I’ll give you that, but it’s not gonna fool me. It’s all a magic trick, isn’t it? All of this.”  


> “It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.”  
>  “No, all right, stop it now.”  
>  “No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.”  
>  “All right.”  
>  “Keep your eyes fixed on me.”

  
“I told Irene, I told Mrs. Hudson, I told you, everyone knows I’m not gay. I’m not! Sherlock, I was married to a woman! How could I have loved you then?”  
“John–”  
“No! Don’t talk to me like that! You can’t, you can’t do this to me, Sherlock. Just shut up. Eurus, how long?”  
“Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick–”  
“How long do I have!”  
“Just say it, John, please.” Sherlock’s not used to his voice trembling like this. It’s genuine fear. “For me, just say it. I swear, John, it’s not a trap. I wouldn’t do this to you – I’d never do this to you.”  
“Tick, tock, Sherlock,” Moriarty interrupts, “You know, Sherlock, I loved you too. It’s easy to love someone so smart, so handsome, so accomplished, so, well, how do I put this–”  
Another click. “Boring.” Eurus is back, hands laced behind her head, eyes watering with joyful tears. “You know what the fun part is, John? I don’t have to tell you how long you have. You saw what happened to the others. I could just,” she says, moving and tracing one finger in the crook of her other hand’s thumb and forefinger, as if holding a gun, “kill you now.  
“But it’s so much more fun watching you squirm. I’ll give you this: once I hear the release code from your lips, John, you’ll all be free to move on. But if I don’t, well…you know what happens then. Circle of life, boys.”  
The screen goes black. “Help me, help me, please! The plane’s shaking! I can’t wake Mummy up!”  
“Now hang on, I’m here,” Sherlock panics, “I’m here.”  
“Why do you keep going away?”  
“I can’t explain that right now. I know it’s hard to trust me but I can’t explain it right now. Can you tell me your name?”  
“I can’t tell my name to–”  
Static.  
“God,” Mycroft breathes, “dear God. She’s gone again. John. You just have to say the code.”  
“No, it’s a trick. It’s all a trick.”  
“You’re an honorable man, John. I know my brother, and I know you.”  
“ _Please, _” John whispers.  
“Remember what we said, John?” Sherlock takes a few hesitant steps around the coffin and meets John on the other side. “Soldiers today.” He holds out his hand. “Show me yours.”  
“My hand? What’s this got to do with my bloody hand?”  
“Trust me.” John brings his arm out stiffly and rests his palm on Sherlock’s. “Mycroft? Look at this. Just as I thought.” John’s hand twitches. “Unsteady. See this? Your hand never shakes, John, but now…”  
And John pulls it back. The flash of anger in his eyes sends deep, jarring pain down Sherlock’s chest. John, the heart to Sherlock’s head, the empty eyes looking over waves and waves and endless waves of death. The war. Sherlock. Mary. He’s lost so much and he’s stood firm through it all. Never once has his hand shaken like this.  


> “You told me once that you weren’t a hero...there were times I didn’t even think you were human, but, let me tell you this: you were the best man and human…human being I’ve ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, that’s… uh. There. I was so alone, and I owe you so much.”

  
Sherlock takes a step back and looks at the floor, talking at it. He feels John look up but doesn’t meet his eyes. “John...if it helps. I don’t know how long we have, and I don’t know if you’ll be blown up by the time I finish, but it’s better that I say it like this. John. I’m so sorry. I know how much pain I’ve caused you. You and Mary...well, I ruined that for you. And I’ll never forgive myself for her death because I know how much you loved her. I don’t know why or how she picked me over herself but I’m endlessly guilty.”  


> “Who leaves a wedding early?”

  
“Mary told me to save you, so I drove myself up the wall. I stood in the street and I talked to nobody at all and I nearly hit Mrs. Hudson. I wasn’t saving you, John. You saved me. You’ve saved me so many times. More than I could count, and more than I could ever thank you for.”  
“Sherlock.”  
“You, John, you’re...you’re one of the best men I know. And John: I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time.”  
“Sherlock.”  
Silence. It’s like the room is closing in on both of them. Suffocating every word Sherlock tries to get out. John doesn’t move.  
And then he speaks. It’s without a real breath; several little ones replace it. It’s the closest thing to sobbing that Sherlock’s ever seen cross John’s face for months.  
“Sherlock, fine. Fine. Fine. Just don’t look at me, okay?” Sherlock nods at the ground. “Yes, God, yes, I love you. Okay? I loved you before Mary. And then Mary came. And I still loved you. And Sherlock, do you know how terrible that can make someone feel? I love you. You and your funny hat and I can’t – I can’t–”  
“It’s okay. You’ve said it now, John, it’s okay. It’s okay. Thank you. Eurus – can we talk to the girl on the plane now?”  
Eurus’s voice rings out from the speakers. The screen is still empty but Sherlock can imagine her cackling behind it. “Aw, look how sad, you’ve broken him. A broken man. Silly Sherlock, you always were so silly. I wasn’t going to kill him. I just wanted you to… break him. Won’t you look up, Sherlock dear? See what you’ve done? See those tears? So silly…  
“But you won’t look up, won’t you? Funny: a man without heart can’t bear to see his lover broken like this. Fascinating. Utterly fascinating.”  
“You said we could talk to the girl. Let us talk with the girl on the plane, Eurus.”  
“Only one thing left, Sherlock. One more thing you must do, just for me. Look him in the eyes. See what you’ve done to the poor man. Look him…in the eyes.”  


> “Keep your eyes fixed on me.”

  
Raw, red pain. That’s what John’s eyes are. It could’ve been easy, this. They could’ve talked it out one night walking along Baker Street. But instead…this. It’ll never be normal. How could this ever be normal again? I LOVE YOU. How many lives have these words ruined? How many worlds – normal worlds – have been tossed into chaos like this?  


> “Keep your eyes fixed on me.”  
>  “Keep your eyes fixed on me.”

__

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic ever! I hope you guys loved it and I have some more on the way! There were meant to be some italics here and there but I haven't quite figured out the code so there should be some changes...eventually.– backinmysherlockphaseiguess


End file.
